


let your hesitations be hushed

by StrangeHormones



Category: The Shape of Water (2017)
Genre: Cheating, F/M, Loss of Virginity, Older Man/Younger Woman, Period-Typical Sexism, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-15
Updated: 2020-06-15
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:15:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24732961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StrangeHormones/pseuds/StrangeHormones
Summary: richard strickland x fem!reader| there’s no possible way to describe what you feel when you’re talking to your meal
Relationships: Richard Strickland/Reader
Comments: 8
Kudos: 24





	let your hesitations be hushed

**Author's Note:**

> tbc?

There were a lot of things Richard Strickland had expected of the government facility, especially with what he was dragging back with him. High tech labs, the best computers money could buy, and he hadn’t been disappointed. Everything was far better than he had imagined even, with an army of flunkies that were both intelligent and fearful, a perfect combination for a man in power like himself. It was all so perfect and he couldn’t imagine a better place to be. Somehow, it managed to only get better. Watching you walk in behind Fleming with a hard look that seems far more intimidating on your soft feminine features. He’s trying to argue with you and failing miserably, whether because he’s distracted by the shape of your lips like Strickland is or simply because his arguments hold no water he’s not sure. Just that it’s clear you’ve won when a smirk curls your face, it’s hard not to imagine the look beneath his belt buckle but he manages. If only because the metal on his finger suddenly seems heavier and almost burns against his skin.

When you first had the pleasure of meeting Richard Strickland, he made something very clear to you, one day he would be inside you and you’d love every second of it. He hadn’t said it, a married man who was your superior on a classified project wasn’t about to announce it in a room full of mouth breathers but the way he took your hand when you introduced yourself. Bringing it to his lips like the movies your mother watched and no man had ever done to you before. But it comes with a sly smile and a wicked look that you don’t miss, though he seems to truly believe you have. That somehow your femininity has left you naive to the darkest nature of the human male. Men never seem to realize it is quite the opposite, forever being prey for masculinity has provided you with far too much insight into what a man wants. No man had ever looked at you the way he had in that passing moment, such raw animalism that it could only mean just that. You knew it was true though, he’d try and you would let him, you might even beg for it, and you’d never stop wanting it from him. You know what kind of man he is, alpha oozes from his pores, and even when he introduces himself politely his voice is firm and leaves you no ability to question. No option to interject.

“And what do you do here, little lady?” he finally asks, Fleming’s prepared to answer, he’s quickly stopped, “Are you a little lady?” which earns snickers from around the room and a sheepish look from the man.

“I translate back, forth, and upwards,” you answer far more plainly than he expected, prepared for the use of big words to make yourself grandiose, “And I’m cute,” you know exactly what you’re here for and you seem to have no qualms about it.

If anything you appear to take a certain pride in it and it is well deserved. It’s not a job an idiot could walk off the street and do, especially in those heels you’re wearing.

“That you are,” he says, watching you smile behind your clipboard as you turned.

It’s enough of an introduction for now, but he internally vows to get to know you better as the days go on. He starts to get his wish almost immediately, translating the science speak into English and back, occasionally cracking a joke that only he seems to get. If only because he doesn’t live with his nose in the seam of a book or with a large stick up his behind like the others surrounding you. It’s a breath of fresh air, something different to go with his something extraordinary, he just has to remind himself not to flip the two. Fleming whispers something in your ear and you wave goodbye, hurrying quickly out the door and flipping through the various papers on that wooden board that seemed to be growing out of your hand. 

“Where’d you find her?” he can’t help asking, standing in front of the pressurized tank, staring at his traveling companion.

“Oh, you mean...?” Fleming nodded quickly, “Her father, that’s all I know.”

-_-_-_-_-_-

It’s early morning, you’re enjoying the one cigarette you allow yourself a day. You had quit, just as told, but that one little smoke when you were done with work and the sun had just risen, well, it wasn’t the real world so it didn’t count. You still duck behind the building of course, out of sight from anyone who could pass the information along. At least, you had thought so. You’re halfway done, watching how the light bounces off the few scattered trees, a bit of a beauty that stayed the same no matter what godforsaken place you’d been forced too. 

“Nice young ladies don’t smoke,” of course, at least he was making light, they were in the outside world, between work and home, nothing really existed here, “Suppose that’s why you’re tucked away back here.”

“Just one, at the time of day when nothing really counts,” you shrugged, taking a long drag, “You came to find me.”

“Thought you’d like a ride home, much faster than the bus,” you raised your brows but nodded.

“Thank you.”

He allows you silence as you finish the last of the smoke but doesn’t stop his prying eyes. Maybe he thought if he’d stared long enough he could crack your candy-coated shell or you’d be so unnerved a waterfall of truths would pour from your mouth. You wouldn’t be working for the defense department if either of those things were possible. You drug the filter across the stone building, making sure it was out so you could dispose of it properly. If only not receive the wrath of janitorial, you’d seen what happened when they were leading a strike against one particular person and it was not a pretty sight to behold. He leads the way, better than the offered after me most men would have offered, you had no idea where you were going and you being ahead would serve no purpose. It’s a small detail but it’s one of the many you’ve noticed about him since he walked into the lab.

“So who’s your daddy?” he asks when you’ve made it to the front of the building, re-entering the real world, “Fleming said...”

“Fleming can go fuck himself,” you shot back which earned you a raised eyebrow and amused smile tossed over his shoulder, “Daddy told me to get married or get a job and I didn’t like any of the boys in my neighborhood.” 

He slows next to an older Chevy that still managed to seem brand new, he did open the door for you, only closing it once you were settled in the seat. He walks around, sliding into the driver's seat, starting and pulling out in a quick and oddly smooth fashion. It gives you a chance to continue your exploration of him, with a full view that required no hiding. You were still trying to figure out what about him you found attractive. He was old but that’s where the similarities to your previous dalliances stopped. Harsh, that’s how you would describe his features, even when he was smiling it seemed just the barest bit wicked. So it must be something about him, everything about him that leaked through the cracks.

“Pretty sure they don’t raise boys equipped to handle women like you,” he spoke once you’d pulled onto the main road, glancing over at you.

You laughed, a loud sound you didn’t expect to just fall out, and covered your mouth before it went on a little too long, “You and I both know there aren’t women like me,” finally looking out the front window, “Get on going south.”

He nodded, flipping on the blinker and merging across the three lanes without a second glance in the rearview, “You might be right. No one gave you this job because your daddy asked, I can say that with certainty.”

“I’ll be the first to admit he’s why I got my pump in the door but everything after was me,” you elaborated the point, smiling over at him to find his gaze turning quickly out the front window, “You sure are interested in little ol’ me,” keeping your eyes on him, you saw the speeding landscape every day.

He taps his thumb against the steering wheel, meeting your eyes for a few brief seconds, “You are exactly the kind of woman my wife’s always worrying about.”

“Should she be?”

It’s a heavy question that hangs in the air for the rest of the ride. Once you’re off the highway it’s a series of directions that wouldn’t have allowed for much conversation anyways. You’ve stopped in front of the tall, thin building squished between two beautiful brownstones you call home. The trees around it droop from being squished as well, its heavy top causing it to fall in a way that blocks most of your front yard from view and leaves only the attic to peek over the wide bend created by its new growth downward. The second you saw it, you knew you wanted it. Even though when it was windy the shutters banged, the furnace clanged in the winter and during the summer only a certain combination of windows opened in just the right way would keep it cool. Among the spiraling stairs upwards and perfectly peeling floral wallpaper, the reason you loved it most was it was yours. Bought in your name, with your money, and brought with it a sense of freedom you had never imagined feeling before. 

“Anything about you normal, little lady? Anything at all?” he asked, watching you open the door and slide off the seat.

You tapped your nails against the roof of the car, humming in your throat before shaking your head with a smile, “I don’t think so. See you tomorrow, _Richard_ ,” shutting the door and opening your gate before disappearing beneath the greenery.

He’s just about to walk in the door of his new home, he can hear his wife on the other side, his son lamenting going to a new school while his daughter, ever the optimist, was more excited than any child should be. There’s a smile on his face, like always. But it isn’t breakfast he’s thinking of or sex with his wife, not even what he’ll be doing later on that night to that monstrosity. He’s smiling because you called him Richard, he’d tossed a little harmless flirting in the air and you’d thrown it back full force and he only seemed to be just realizing it. He eats in silence, washes his hands for the required 2 minutes, climbs on top of his wife but it isn’t her he’s thinking of. He thinks about you.

Not like this, you’re unpredictable and he would expect nothing less when he’s got you stripped down to your barest self. He imagines bending you over his desk, right in front of those windows, slamming into you until the desk meets the glass, thudding against it with every thrust forward. The noises you’ll make, the things you’ll say, he can’t imagine you keeping your mouth shut. He wonders if you’ll beg, he’s sure he could make you. For him at least. He cums to that thought, looking at him over your shoulder and begging him to fill you up until all you could manage to say was his name. Over and over.

-_-_-_-_-_-

Your morning-evening- begins normally. Alarm clock rings, you get up and go about making coffee and beginning to get ready. You’ve rinsed, dried, and put away your mug when the phone rings. The phone seldom rings and when it does it’s not at 8 pm on a work night. Carefully you lift it from the cradle, holding against your ear and muttering a slightly confused sounding version of your normal greeting.

“It’s not exactly hard for me to get your phone number,” you sigh, leaning against the wall at the familiar voice of the Colonel on the other end, “Need a ride?”

“Sure,” you reply, nodding your head even know he can’t see you, “When should I expect you?”

“9:30,” he answers, you can hear his wife in the back, it should make you feel something, “It’s work, honey,” his voice muffled and you roll your eyes, at least on this end of the phone you don’t have to pretend to be dumb.

“Am I now?” you shoot, sure he’s trying not to smile right now, you have no reason to be but you are, “I’ll see you soon, Richard.”

“9:30, little lady,” he drops his tone at your moniker but it’s important enough he has to say it.

You hang up, not him, it makes you smile and bite your lip. This is one of those bad things your mother had worried about happening when you moved out. Of course in her rendition, you weren’t so complacent. You weren’t even complacent, you were an active participant. You shrugged, it wasn’t something you felt the need to think too hard on. She wasn’t your wife, shaking away the implications that came with that thought. Leaving it at a simple it might not be so bad. 

You pushed off the wall, thankfully getting ready became a well-practiced as a woman. By the time 9 o’clock rolled around you were standing in the foyer, examining your hair and makeup in the different light. As always not a hair out of place or a lipstick smudge, dress wrinkle-free and, no scuffs on your shoes. It was a man’s world inside those walls. You couldn’t afford to be anything less than pristine. A firm knock echoes through the house and makes you gasp. Your eyes dart to the clock. Initially thinking you might’ve been distracted much longer than you’d thought but the minute hand has barely moved. Which means he’s early.

You take one last glance in the mirror and step forward, opening the door with a smile, “My clock must be broken,” melting into it so easily you’re starting to realize it might truly have been all those other men’s fault you hadn’t fallen for them, “That or you’re just a little early.”

“You can tell a lot about a man’s character on when he picks up a beautiful woman,” he responded, stepping inside with a smile as you stepped to the side with your arm out, “Can’t be late, shows he doesn’t think she’s worth his time. Can’t be on time, that’s too literal. Too literal is a woman’s worst nightmare,” watching you scoff and turn from the closed door, somehow surprised to find him looking at you, “Now early, early says that not only does he know how to make a plan and stick to it but that he just can’t wait to see her.”

“Sounds an awful lot like you trying to say something nice in a way that doesn’t get you in trouble with your wife,” you laughed because that’s exactly what it is, it’s why he says it that’s got you curious.

“Suppose you’re right. But she isn’t here, is she?” you shook your head, watching him tracing you from head to toe with his sharp gaze, “No, she’s not.”

After a long beat of silence, he steps forward, taking your chin lightly in his hand and forcing your eyes to his. He’s looking at you like he’s trying to find something and whatever it is he seems to because that look is back. That same one from the lab that turns his stormy blues into something much darker. The one that says you have no idea the things he’s going to do to you. The things you’ll beg him to do to you. It’s a strange level of control to have over a person in such a short period of time but they weren’t dealing in the realm of normality. Nothing about any of this was normal. Why should whatever was tying the two of you together be any different? He leans forward, pressing his lips beside your ear for some great secret he seemed to not even want God privy to.

“All I can seem to think about is fucking you,” smirking when he feels the tiny shudder shake you, “Even with my wife,” letting the implication linger as he took a step back, “We should probably go, don’t want to be late.”

He had done it on purpose and you knew there really wasn’t anything you could do to counter. You spent the first half directing him to the highway towards work as you rolled the words around in your mind. You knew what he meant, the idea of him having to think of you, and all the things he wanted to do to crest that edge made a heat pool between your legs that clearly had no intent to leave. The last half of the drive is actual work, you’re answering his questions, and him walking you through how he expected the meeting to go. There was no point in using your particular set of skills now, that would be better if they were ever trapped between a rock and a hard place, for now, it would be business as usual.

Except it wasn’t business as usual. You had never seen anything like this in your life. Something out of a storybook. It was not a look that Richard shared but Bob did and you were glad for it. Perhaps it came down to God, as you had passively heard your infatuation mention. If you believed in him, this creature before you was indeed an abomination. But if you did not, as any man of science or woman who knew their worth, then it was something beautiful. Wondering at its evolution, habitat, a thousand and one other things you weren’t meant to wonder on so intensely flitted through your brain. And you saw them reflected in the Doctor’s eyes. There was no doubt in your mind that look would break. You hadn’t had to hear about it to understand what he meant by they hadn’t gotten to like each other, you weren’t blind. Violence would ruin his curiosity. As it so often seemed to do. 

He’d seen it, the second he stepped into the lab. That wonder in your eyes and feels an odd sort of jealousy. Not that you seem intrigued by the Asset, he wouldn’t have it any other way. But that for now you’ve forgotten everything entirely. Watching it watch you, he doesn’t like that one bit. This thing, anything, _anyone_. It firmly makes him a hypocrite, he knows that it’s the only thing that stops him from stomping over and wrenching you away. Forcing you to look at him until he filled up every crack of your brain that didn’t involve work. There are too many people, too much to do. But he vows to find a way to remind you. Watching you take a step back, then another, bleeding into the background. Out of sight, out of mind. To everyone but him, for a time. When the violence begins you flit away too.

It doesn’t surprise you, the level of brutality he’s able to achieve. Men like him come with their dark side, it’s how they’re able to achieve the level of allure they do. They are truly dangerous. He feels the need to remind the creature of this often, speaking to it as if it can understand him. Maybe it can, you don’t know, just that by lunchtime you have lost your appetite and you feel the urge for a cigarette. You should ignore it, you’d quit, and quitting didn’t seem like such a good idea. There wasn’t anyone left to run off to your father. You end up walking around the side of the building. It’s so different at night. There’s no parking lot lights, just the stars and the faint glow from the edges of metal sheets where windows might’ve been. You’re about to slip the filter between your lips when there’s the sound of steps. 

You don’t have to turn your gaze to know it’s him, you should have expected this and yet somehow you’re still taken by surprise. You tuck it back into the pack and that into the front pocket of your overcoat. His sudden appearance combined with the darkness makes you realize how secluded this spot truly is. You’re trying to remember what’s on the other side of the thick concrete wall in the building. It’s an old abandoned hangar, there’s no one there, but he must know that already. It’s why he’d been so sure approaching you that first time. You aren’t given much more time to think about what’s happening than that. Which you’re sure is as equally planned as every action he takes with you seems to be.

Sour Apple has always been one of your least favorite of the fake candy flavors. Watermelon and cherry top the list, the green concoction drags along the bottom along with lemon and that purple monstrosity they dared to call grape. It’s all you can taste, it’s smell lost in deep and spicy yet floral smell you had never noticed. If only because you had never been closer than a console away. Now there wasn’t even a breath between the two of you. The cold stone was softened by your pea coat, other than that he seemed to surround you entirely. Tongue dipping between your lips, it feels like he’s trying to commit every part of you to memory. The thought makes you groan, fingers gripping the lapels of his jacket in a white-knuckled grip. His dip beneath the heavy wool, along the where the thin fabric of your dress cinches around your waist. Every pass seems to leave an unfamiliar fire in its wake, it won’t disappear anytime soon. He presses deeper, farther, until your knees buckle and he’s the only thing holding you upright. It seems to be what he wants, the moan it draws form something unexpected that forces him away from your lips for all the right reasons.

“Was I not giving you enough attention?” you can’t help trying to rip a chunk out of his carefully constructed facade using the crack he’d just shown you as the starting point.

This time when he presses forward, expecting you to succumb beneath him again you’re prepared. Tugging his bottom lip between your teeth before he can invade your mouth and slipping your tongue between them in his distraction. There’s a lingering sweetness that hides in the cracks and corners, of course, it’s the candy. But when stripped of that horrendous green flavor it’s easy to pretend it’s just how he tastes. You grip his tie with one hand, pulling hard as the other glides over the curve of his neck to grip his shirt collar in a purposefully tight grip. A little wrinkle all your own. His fingers dig into the sensitive skin across your ribs, caging them with his hand as he tried to ground himself against the unexpected show of power. 

“Kind of attention I want isn’t exactly appropriate,” he mumbles against your lips, wanting his own chance at the upper hand but unwilling to completely pull away, “Considering.”

You roll your eyes, pressing forward hard and using the surprise to slip from his grip and under his arm, “I suppose you’re right,” shoving your hands in your pockets as you began to walk backward, “Good thing I have a very vivid imagination,” spinning on your feet to hurry back inside.

You were thankful for the grunt work for once. Sitting in a small office with barely enough room to spread out your arms, and reading over the words in front of you for what had to have been the fifth time. You know the words, you know that you understand them, but you can’t take them in. It might just be pointless and you were thinking about what else you might be able to work on that required very little actual focus when there was a knock on the door. Your eyes flicked to the clock, surprised to find the day pretty much over. You hopped to your feet, grabbing your purse, and taking the two and a half steps to the door and opening it.

“That’s your office?” he’s looking over your shoulder when you step into the hall and close the door, “It’s a closet.”

“It has my name on the door,” you shoot back and it’s nice to see him almost impressed, “Offering another ride?”

“Seeing as it’s your weekend and all I thought you might want to get a jump on it. The bus isn’t great for that, is it?” 

You don’t ask how he knows it’s about to be your two precious days off, just walk next to him as you head towards the underground garage that now had his assigned spot. You expect Fleming to approach him when he suddenly appears alongside the two of you on the way down but he doesn’t. Looking at you in that way that says he’s about to ask you a favor. That twitching eye that says you’re not going to like it.

“No!” you point at him, Richard looks between the two of you with confusion, “We had an agreement. Last time was the _last_ time.”

“I know but Judy-”

“Oh fuck your wife Fleming!” you don’t know where the outburst comes from but it feels good, you’re sick of always saying yes to covering his workload because it’s expected, “ _Actually_ maybe if you did that she’d stop going out of town to get it and leaving you with those monsters you dare to call children!” 

He’s stuttering, he doesn’t know what to say, it’s probably the first time any woman has said the word fuck to him and so blatantly, not to mention publicly, mentioned what went on in his and his wife’s bedroom. You would definitely get a chat about it later, even if it was technically off hours. It wouldn’t be the first time you’d gotten the act more lady-like speech but you’re sure it will be the worst one yet. At least this time it would be worth it. Rather than all the other times, you had just dared to have an opinion. 

“You know I still don’t think he’s closed his mouth,” appearing beside you with a slight lean as you made your way towards his car.

He opens the door, you climb in and he starts the car, in silence. It’s not the best time to bring up that morning so you don’t. Choosing instead to focus on how nice the moment back there had been. He glances over at her when he turns onto the street towards the highway. He doesn’t need directions anymore and you refuse to insult him by offering them.

“Sounds like he deserved it,” you snicker, pressing your hand to your face as you looked at the window, too much hiding makes it far too obvious, “More than deserved it even.”

“Every other damn weekend since I got here. Like I got nothing better to do than his work,” shaking your head and looking across the car at him, “I mean, I don’t but I also don’t appreciate the assumption. I’m a vibrant young lady-”

“That you are,” which steals the rest of the sentence from your mind, he’s paying you back for the loss of control just a few hours ago, “Lack of planning on his part doesn’t constitute an emergency on yours,” it’s like he’d stolen the words from your mind.

“You know I said that exact same thing to him two weeks ago. Then he tattled and I got a talking too about being more polite and ladylike. This is bound to be worse,” you watch his jaw flex, clenching his teeth, the edges of his eyes harden and they’re suddenly back on the road.

He takes the turn quickly and the same with the merge onto the highway, “I wouldn’t worry too much about something like that happening.”

“I’m starting to wonder if I’ll ever be able to pay you back,” you joke, it was the last thing you wanted to think about all weekend.

His knuckles are white around the steering wheel, “I’m sure you’ll manage.”

There is no hypothetical anymore. That’s what finding her outside had been about. There is no if, no untouchable fantasy, one day very soon it was going to happen. It’s his own form of showing you he gives some sort of damn about you, for one reason or another. You turn in your seat slightly, facing him full on best you can and daring for the first time to reach across that console that seemed an impenetrable wall between the two of you. Running your fingers gently along the back of his wrist, watching his breath hitch, forcing his eyes away from their natural instinct to look down because it’s about time to merge for the exit. The tight grip instantly eases though, you watch color rush back in, tracing further along with the curled digits.

“I’ll start with thank you,” you mean, you can’t remember the last time you said thank you to a man and it didn’t come with the bubblegum smile they forced you to paint on in front of the world, “So thank you, really,” you can’t remember the last time anyone had ever done anything for you worth such a genuine reaction.

You pull your hand back to your lap and face forward, making some attempt at acting like you hadn’t been unable to control yourself for a fleeting moment. That couldn’t be taken back either. Things had changed quickly. Why? But you know why. It’s exactly what you had asked, wasn’t it? You hadn’t been paying attention to him since the second he’d appeared you had been entirely focused on him. It was your job after all. Then of course there was this. But for a brief time, he hadn’t mattered. _Nothing mattered_. Just this creature in all it’s dangerous beauty. The car pulling to a stop at the end of your walk jars you from your thoughts and you’re more than thankful for that as well.

“She’s already worried about you,” he seems more amused by the idea than trying to communicate any semblance of trying to stop the inevitability between the two of them, “Think she should be?” you shrugged, tugging your bottom lip between your teeth as the corners of your mouth in a way that was more mischievous than anything else, “Yeah, I thought so,” exhaling slowly and you almost expect to go for the candy in his pocket.

He doesn’t, watching you unbuckle the seat belt and pull at the door handle, “Suppose I won’t see you for a few days,” pushing and slipping one foot onto the sidewalk, “That’s disappointing.”

You’re about to close the door when he finally speaks again, “Tomorrow,” one ominous word that sends shivers up your spine.

You close the door. He doesn’t pull away until you pass out of his vision beyond the trees and you’ve turned the porch light on, letting it filter beneath and announce your safety. Even on your porch the world feels suffocating. _Tomorrow_. Tomorrow it changes.

-_-_-_-_-_-

You sleep a nice extra hour. There’s no need for coffee because you’re given the comfort of waking slowly. You go straight from your bed to the bathroom, plugging the bottom and twisting the knobs just right. Pouring the sweet-smelling bubble bath from the pitcher beside the tub to the perfect amount before stripping off your nightgown and slipping into the tub. Laying there in the silence, eyes closed, until the water moved from almost scalding to lukewarm and the towering soap at all but completely disappeared. It’s one of the few precious times your mind is completely empty. It’s just being wrapped in heat and your favorite smells. There’s no need to think of anything. You don’t use a towel on your body. Working at your hair as the water travels in rivulets, then drips and finally cling to the small hairs of your body. 

You slide the oversized sweater over your body only once you’ve rubbed lotion into your skin from head to toe. By now you’re ready for breakfast which is two pieces of toast and a bowl of fruit. You listen to the radio as you much, staring at the stars through the window of the little nook that served as a dining room in the kitchen. Next comes your bills, it doesn’t take long to get them written out and in envelopes. You step across the kitchen through the short hall to the foyer, setting them on the entry table. You’ll put them in the mailbox before you go to bed in the morning. 

It’s instinct to peek through the window just above the oak table when you’ve dropped the papers. Normally you don’t see anything. But it is tomorrow after all. And tomorrow had promised to be a lot of things you hadn’t been expecting. Like how Richard should be almost 3 hours into his shift but instead he’s making his way up the cobblestone walkway. Up the peeling stairs, he doesn’t raise his hand to knock, catching you watching him before he has the chance. You should stand there and make him do it any way but even with the sagging tree blocking your little private world from the rest of the planet, no one is truly invisible. 

You open the door, stepping to the side with it as he walks in. Unlike the time before he removes his jacket while you close and lock the door once more. Seeing the line of shoes, he toes off your own, the observation does not go unappreciated and your smile.

“Can I get you a drink?” you ask, brows raised as if this were any other social call.

“I’m a scotch man myself,” he answers automatically, too concerned with memorizing the image of you and eager to discover what was beneath the beige fabric that would live in his memory forever.

“I thought that might be the case,” you point to the doorway off to the side, “Have a seat in the living room, I’ll be right back.”

He does, he doesn’t need to follow you, he already has you. The confidence dampens the unclothed apex of your thighs. You pull two tumblers from the cabinet and a bottle tucked to the back of the top shelf of the same cupboard. Climbing on the counter is a common occurrence and you’re joining him in the cozy living room. He’s exploring the sketches strewn across a desk shoved unceremoniously into the corner. You meet him there, dropping the glasses with a loud thud and filling them both halfway.

“It might be in my best interest to stop being surprised by you,” matching your long sip with a large gulp of his own, “You own this place,” statement, you appreciate it. 

"My own slice of paradise,” he nods along but he’s not looking at the walls with the brand new floral wallpaper or even the sketches anymore.

It’s you. You’re his central focus. So much so he’s set his drink on the windowsill. You swallow another drink before he takes your glass to. You start to wonder what’s wrong with the desk when he has you pressed against its’ edge. Every part of him his pristine, so well put together. From his tailored pants that are soft against her legs to the precisely rolled sleeves of his starched shirt. Not a hair out of place. And then you come to his eyes. It’s where he hides it all. Has anyone but you cared enough to look before? Certainly, not his wife or he wouldn’t be here right now. You jump headfirst into those pools, never daring to break the electric stare even as your hands nervously gripped the table’s edge. You can feel his fingertips along your thigh, soft and barely-there, more concerned with the almost imperceptible lifting of your sweater. 

“Why?” you finally ask the question that’s been hanging in the air since that first moment you saw the real him.

He lifts higher, you can feel just a bit more pressure when he discovers there will be no more fabric to block his path. His hands hold you tight, splaying across the curve of your waist and cage it once more. For as exposed as you are, you don’t feel that way. He has no motive to look anywhere else but you looking at him. Knowing he doesn’t scare you, that you want him, and trying to fill in the blanks with what he could piece together under the swirling irises. 

“I don’t think I have a choice,” he’s the one who breaks first, dipping his head to drag his lips along the curve of your neck, thumbs moving back and forth against your skin, “When God gives you a gift you don’t ask Him why.”

Even if it was just lip service it was damn good and you were more than happy to pretend it wasn’t for just a few hours. It had been ridiculous to entertain the idea that they wouldn’t have ended up like this. One way or another. He urges you onto the wood, using his grip to roll you onto your tiptoes. You drop your arms to press the papers back as you slide onto the cherry polished wood. His teeth dig into your skin when his thighs meet the wood, spreading your legs around his hips. All he wants is to press against you now, feel your heat roll over him. But he can’t afford to be marked by you in any way, somehow that makes him even more desperate. Imagining your teeth and nails ripping his skin. _One day._ It doesn’t need to be logical, it just has to be a thought that exists between them. It’s the only way this works.

“I don’t think God has anything to do with this,” you panted, fingers tugging at his belt and moaning when he sucked hard at the sound of jingling metal, “It’s just you, me, and a choice,” somewhere between a whisper and a gasp when his grip tightened from the sensation of her fingertips undoing his slacks, “Is this what you want, Richard?”

The way you say his name in this moment is different than anytime before. Not just from you but from anyone. It actually sounds like his name, if only because it’s what you know him as. He feels real and raw, you expect nothing of him. You want nothing from him that he can’t give. And in return, you seem quite happy to let him take. Even now. When he knows that no matter how experienced you seemed to be there was one threshold you hadn’t dare cross. He’s far too greedy to ready you the way he should, keeping his grip with one hand while the other slipped between your legs. You gasp at the sudden intrusion of his fingers, he lifts his head, expects your gaze to be lost to him. 

It’s not, he finds his motions slowing. Slow, languid movements as he watches your eyelids flutter, and your throat flutter as your breath catches. He’s never just watched a woman come undone, too busy preparing himself for the next step. Your knees dig into him, fingers curling in the sides of his shirt till he’s sure it might rip, he can feel every stuttered breath in his grip. You don’t moan, almost grunting, like his wife or squeal like all the other women before. Swallowing hard, panting, shuddering, your entire body tenses, your pussy clamping tight on his fingers. And then you made the most beautiful sound he’d ever heard. 

A whimper. A tiny thing that you hadn’t even realized you made. That perfect bottom lip between your teeth and it’s the only thing he can hear. It’s the only thing he wants to hear. No, more than that. He needs it. It isn’t a feeling he’s ever known, needing something so badly it shut off every other part of his mind. It’s addictive. _You’re_ addictive. Nails dragging lightly over his skin as you pushed the tailored waistband of his pants and the elastic of his briefs down. Your hands move to grip him, he doesn’t think, using his hold on you to press you back against the desk no matter how much he needed you against him in this moment. 

You mewl. Disappointed. Needy. He couldn’t have done anything else if he’d tried, pulling his fingers from you, he grips himself. His eyes sweep over you, open and wanting. Fingers wrapped around the desk's edge, ready and wanting. He’s in awe of your ability to somehow become completely undone without any loss of control. It isn’t anything he had imagined possible let alone something he was capable of. Pressing the leaking head of his cock against your hole, you watch him and his enchantment with the moment, slow and firm pushing deeper and deeper. There’s no pain on your face as he expects from how tight you are against him and the unspoken knowledge that he’s the first man to have ever made you feel this way. Teeth finally breaking the soft flesh of your lip and painting it crimson, your grip threatening to splinter the wood. This is the _only_ thing he wants. 

Only when he’s buried to the hilt in you does he return his hand to its match around your ribs. He can feel your heart pounding, your breath-stopping, the few tense vertebrae beneath his fingertips. His thumbs press into your sternum, he pulls back slowly and thrusts quickly. 

“ _Fuck!”_ your back arches, without his grip you would’ve shot up straight, instead you writhe in his grip, he repeats the motion, “ _Jesus Christ!”_

Women aren’t supposed to speak that way. Throwing that word around like it’s meaningless and taking the Lord’s name in vain. That unexplained being beneath the boat-neck dresses and cat-eye liner. Who oozed power when no man was looking for it. And even though he’s above you, holding you down. _Even though he’s the one inside of you_. No part of him is in control. He breaks that eye contact he’s so quickly come to crave, it overloaded his senses and he needs to focus. He needs at least one foot on Earth when the rest of him was flying. 

He can’t, hands slamming against the wood with a thud that was lost in the hidden moans beneath your breaths that now rolled beside his ear. Your hands in his hair as you roll against his thrusts. Up the curve of your spine, holding the small of your back, bruising your hips, trying to touch every part of you at the same time. He settles for an arm around your waist and a hand gripping the base of your throat. When his fingers clench so does your quim, only it doesn’t stop, pulling him deeper to you. Your grip on him is so tight he can’t move, instead of feeling you reach your peak and fall with another quiet, piteous sound in the back of your throat. He finds his release without even realizing its presence. You’re spasming against him, around him, nails scraping his scalp and he’s following his own pleasure.

He can’t bear to pull himself from you, not yet. Instead, he kisses you, as he’s neglected since walking in the door. With his tongue tracing the delicious copper taste from your lips, his still half-hard cock pulsing inside you. It’s an instant. A flash. You scream against his lips, he swallows it down, making it his as is the sudden and overwhelming orgasm that ravages your body. It leaves you shivering and shaking in his arms. He doesn’t want to move, doesn’t want to leave, not yet. Not ever. But he can’t.

“Which way to the bedroom, sweetheart?”

**Author's Note:**

> kudos and feedback always appreciated
> 
> youtastelikesugar.tumblr.com


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